


Androgyny

by SoraRyuuzaki



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoraRyuuzaki/pseuds/SoraRyuuzaki
Summary: “The King and the Coffee, an unassuming coffee shop in the streets of Detroit, is quickly showing itself to be a magnet for all sorts of talented artists,” Yuuri read aloud, his hand shaking. “Victor Nikiforov, who was a regular back before he moved to Los Angeles, has quickly resumed his patronage at the café, which also boasts paintings by a young artist signed Y. Katsuki. One painting in particular, which yet remains untitled, is an obvious homage to Victor Nikiforov’s first famous painting, Androgyny. Art enthusiasts can visit this homage, which evokes all sorts of powerful emotions, at the King and the Coffee in Detroit.”
“Isn’t this great?” Phichit chirped.
Yuuri collapsed into a chair, his vision swimming. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Absolutely peachy.”





	1. Welcome Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "U-um, you wanted a medium hazelnut coffee with three sugars and one cream? For Victor?" he asked shyly, looking up at Victor from behind large-framed glasses.
> 
> "Huh? ... oh; oh, yes, thank you," Victor said after his brain had time to process the order. He cocked his head, bringing his index finger to his lips. "How did you know?"
> 
> There was a thick silence, broken only by the sound of coffee streaming into the cup. Victor watched the steam rise, fogging up the barista's glasses. The barista had spoken so quietly that Victor almost missed it.
> 
> "You... you were a regular. Two years ago." 
> 
> "Yeah, I was." He cocked his head. "How do you remember that? Even after two years?"
> 
> "I always remember my favorite customers' orders," he mumbled softly.

Makkachin bounced around the apartment, pawing at the stacked boxes and giving Victor a dissatisfied whine. The man heaved a sigh as he stood, stretching his arms in a well-needed break from unpacking. The apartment was littered with boxes and packing materials. The poodle paced around the couch, stopping every once in a while to whine at his owner.

"Makkachin, you want your toys, huh?" Victor grinned, crouching down to squeeze his poodle's cheeks. The dog barked in response.

Victor sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. "Makkachin, we've barely unpacked."

The poodle whined. Though Makkachin wasn’t a puppy anymore, Victor still couldn't resist the pitiful look on his dog's face.

He broke into a grin. "All right," he caved. "Let's go."

The streets of downtown Detroit weren't quite what Victor remembered. A lot can change in two years, he figured. Makkachin didn't seem to care as the poodle proceeded to investigate everything on sight. The chilly autumn air nipped at Victor's skin and caused him to shudder. It had been two years since he left Detroit for sunny Los Angeles to pursue his career as an artist, and yet he was here again-- more successful, most definitely, but back in Detroit nonetheless. He found he already missed the weather, though he humored the idea that his Russian ancestors were turning in their graves at the thought of their descendant being afraid of 50-degree-weather.

Rounding the corner, Makkachin stopped to drink water from a dog bowl. Victor remembered this coffee shop well-- he had visited nearly every morning for a good year before he left and often spent lazy mornings contemplating his next piece. He smiled and opened the door. One more, for old time's sake.

"Welcome!" called a voice from behind the counter. Victor took in the scent of coffee, accented by the quaint and rustic feel of the coffee house. Makkachin stood patiently beside him as they waited for the voice to reappear.

A young man stumbled in, his glasses askew and his black hair tousled. His apron was a mess-- powdered white all over-- and he was out of breath.

"I'm so sorry; we had a little trouble with the newest shipment of powdered sugar. How can I help... you...?"

The man's voice trailed off as he made eye contact with Victor. The Russian man's breath hitched as his bright blue eyes locked with warm brown ones. Realizing he was still holding a blank cup and a sharpie, the barista came back to reality.

"U-um, you wanted a medium hazelnut coffee with three sugars and one cream? For Victor?" he asked shyly, looking up at Victor from behind large-framed glasses.

"Huh? ... oh; oh, yes, thank you," Victor said after his brain had time to process the order. He cocked his head, bringing his index finger to his lips. "How did you know?"

The barista rang up the order. "That'll be $4.96. Thank you," he added as he took Victor's credit card. Victor craned his neck a little to look at the name tag pinned to the barista's chest, but he moved too quickly.

There was a thick silence, broken only by the sound of coffee streaming into the cup. Victor watched the steam rise, fogging up the barista's glasses. The barista had spoken so quietly that Victor almost missed it.

"You... you were a regular. Two years ago." 

"Yeah, I was." He cocked his head. "How do you remember that? Even after two years?"

The barista added the cream and sugar, deftly added the lid to the top of the cup, and handed it to Victor over the counter.

"I always remember my favorite customers' orders," he mumbled softly.

Victor grinned, taking the cup and a sip of the coffee. The coffee warmed him from the inside out. "Well, I'm touched," he said. "What's your name?"

The man peeked over the rim of his glasses. "Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki."

"Well, you can expect me to start coming back again, Yuuri," Victor said, enjoying the way the man's name rolled off his tongue. "Makkachin, let's go."

As the man and the dog exited the coffee shop, the barista let out a relieved sigh as he slouched against the counter. Yuuri groaned, clutching his face in his hands.

"Yuuri, what's wrong?" Phichit poked his head out from the back. 

"IT WAS HIM," Yuuri hissed. "VICTOR NIKIFOROV."

Phichit clapped his hands happily and reached for his phone. "Hooray! Your favorite customer is back! You should have told me so I could’ve gotten a picture. It would’ve been great for publicity."

"What am I going to do?" Yuuri moaned. "I sounded like a creep! What will he think of me, since I knew his name and his order like a stalker?!"

"Well, he is a famous artist," Phichit shrugged as he finished the last touches on his tweet. "It's not surprising that you know who he is.

"Yeah, but his order?!"

"You're a barista, it's what you do. And I mean, he's made it pretty clear in interviews that he's a big fan of hazelnut coffee."

"But still--"

"But nothing, Yuuri!" Phichit sighed, clamping his friend's face between lightly sugared hands. "It will be okay."

"But he's coming back tomorrow--"

"So you can put on a smile and tell him that you really love his art. It's that simple!"

Yuuri sighed, looking away from Phichit. "I sure hope so."

The rest of his shift ended without event. Yuuri bid his farewell to Phichit, who had another three hours on his shift, and made his way down the streets of Detroit, bringing his hands up to bathe in the warmth of his breath. The sunset painted beautiful hues of orange and violet and yellow across the sky, a masterpiece in its own right, and yet Yuuri still couldn’t help recalling a similar painting he had seen by Victor Nikiforov himself.

He had been following the Russian-American painter since his last year of middle school when his art class had taken a trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art, Detroit, for inspiration. There was an exhibition on up-and-coming artists that Yuuri had particularly liked, taking his time perusing through each of the descriptions and taking in the art.

The piece that had caught his eye the most was of a person cutting off their hair set against a plain black backdrop, the entire thing accented with red splattered haphazardly across the scene. The person’s back was facing the viewer with what was painted to be like a viewer’s hands in the middle of cutting the person’s beautiful flaxen hair. The hair that was already cut looked like a male hairstyle while the long hair was reminiscent of a fair maiden’s. Yuuri had stared at the painting, stuck in a trance, for quite some time. It felt like he, the viewer, was destroying this person. Though he couldn’t see the person’s expression, the red splattered all over the canvas reminded him of blood, and the hands had been posed aggressively, as if they were stabbing a carcass rather than cutting hair.

After staring at the painting long enough, Yuuri finally gathered the strength to look at the description beneath the painting. Entitled _Androgyny_ , the painting was meant to evoke the feeling of both the male and female genders as well as a lack of gender. He had been shocked to learn that the artist—Victor Nikiforov—was barely four years his senior and already recognized as an artist by museums.

It was then that Yuuri began to delve into art. He found that the act of creating something tangible calmed him, as if the constant anxiety inside of him had finally found an outlet. Yuuri got into the habit of bringing a sketchbook everywhere with him. He certainly wasn’t good, but the sheer act of producing something and the joy it brought gave him more than enough reason to sit quietly in the corner and sketch to his heart’s content.

He never stopped following Victor Nikiforov, though. After his piece in MOCAD went viral, calling long overdue attention to the queer movement and genderqueer people, the Russian-American artist began painting prolifically. Museums and galleries across the nation wanted to host exhibitions on his art, and so two years ago he had left his hometown of Detroit for sunny Los Angeles, where he had stayed until recently.

The Russian-American artist had a much more profound role in Yuuri’s life than the poor barista was willing to admit. Indeed, the only reason Yuuri had applied for a part time job at this particular shop was because Victor had been seen holding cups of coffee with its name on more than one occasion. The first time Yuuri had seen him in the flesh, he had been incapable of speech and had to call a coworker to take his order instead.

Day after day, the famous artist stopped by for another cup of coffee, always the same—a medium hazelnut coffee with three sugars and one cream. Despite seeing him daily for almost six months, Yuuri was still unable to take Victor’s order. And then one day, the Russian-American didn’t come in. One day became two, two became a week, weeks became months, and before Yuuri knew it he had finished grad school and was back in his part-time job at the coffee shop while he searched for a “real” job. And just when he had gotten back into the swing of things, Victor had walked back into his life.

Yuuri heaved a sigh, rubbing his hands together and shrugging his backpack back into place over his overcoat. He supposed he would just pray that Victor didn’t think he was a creep and hope for the best.

* * *

 Victor groaned as he stretched, feeling the ache in his limbs from arranging his apartment to his liking. Most of the boxes were still unpacked, but they were shoved into different parts of the 2-bedroom apartment where they would later be unpacked. He sighed as he sunk into the couch; Makkachin crawled into his lap and rested its head on Victor’s chest. He stroked Makkachin’s fur absently as he scrolled through social media.

“I still have to arrange my studio,” he said after a while, tapping his chin with his phone thoughtfully. He hummed, resuming his scroll. “I suppose we’ll do that tomorrow. The movers have brought everything in anyway.”

Mentally, he ran through a list of things he’d have to check, from his inventory of supplies to how his materials would fit in his desired layout of the studio. He sighed, throwing his head back and letting his hand swing off the edge of the sofa. The taste of coffee lingered on his tongue.

It was nice to see that things hadn’t changed all that much in that shop. He liked the café for its quaint feel, the dark wood of the tables and the warm lighting. He enjoyed his conversations with the staff and he enjoyed the variety of jazz artists that came by to play on Thursday evenings. Victor had noticed that the coffee shop had a variety of new paintings on its walls. He had quite liked it. And, of course, the coffee.

The next morning, he set out with Makkachin on a quick detour to the café before heading to his studio. He squinted at the brightness. _The Detroit sun is an earlier riser than I thought_ , he chuckled to himself as he made his way down the street. Thankfully, the café was only a few blocks from his apartment, and his studio was only a few blocks from the café. His poodle bounded happily ahead of him, happy as always.

The bell on the door announced his entrance, and he was surprised to see there was no line at the register. He checked his watch. 11:00 AM. Victor had anticipated a bit of a wait as the normal working people would generally stop by for a quick coffee break on their way to their lunch break. The café was nearly empty, with a couple of customers typing away at their laptops and an employee wiping down some tables 

He was pleasantly surprised to see the employee from yesterday grinning shyly at him. Victor returned the tentative smile with a brilliant one of his own.

“Good morning, Yuuri.”

“G-good morning, V-Victor. Would you like y-your usual?”

Victor found he quite liked the way Yuuri stuttered. It was endearing. “Yes, please.” As Victor pulled out his wallet, he couldn’t help but notice that Yuuri was gesturing furiously. “Something wrong?”

“Huh? Oh—ah—it’s nothing,” he said as he took the credit card that Victor offered.

As Yuuri processed the purchase, Victor couldn’t help but notice the look of embarrassment plastered on the barista’s face as he occasionally glanced up at someone behind Victor. The Russian-American turned around and saw the other employee gesturing just as emphatically before they made eye contact. The employee, realizing he’d been caught, quickly turned around and resumed wiping the tables with renewed vigor.

When Victor turned around, he was greeted with a beet-red Yuuri and his credit card.

“You’re good to go.” 

Victor pocketed his wallet and walked over to Makkachin. The employee from earlier was crouched down, giving the poodle a wonderful petting.

“My Makkachin’s adorable, right?” Victor beamed as he crouched down to hug his poodle.

The employee smiled, white teeth flashing against tanned skin. “Yeah! He’s really great.” After a moment, he continued. “You’re Victor Nikiforov, right? The artist?”

“Depends. Who’s asking?”

The boy’s eyes flashed up towards the counter. “A fan.” He thrust a hand towards Victor. “Phichit Chulanont. It’s nice to meet you!”

Victor took the hand with a smile. “Same here.”

Phichit shuffled, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Is it okay if I take a picture with you? I want to upload it to our café’s Instagram.”

“A commemorative photo? Sure.”

“Great!” Phichit beamed, standing up triumphantly. “Yuuri, come over here! Let’s take a picture with Victor!”

Yuuri made his way over, his eyes trained on the ground and his hands carefully holding Victor’s coffee. He looked up at Victor briefly. “H-Here’s your coffee.”

Without hesitating, deftly Phichit plucked the cup out of Yuuri’s hands and deposited on a nearby table and, in one smooth motion, squeezed Yuuri between him and Victor while extending his arm out to snap the picture.

“Cheese!” Phichit and Victor chorused.

Phichit waved them over to look at the picture. Yuuri looked disheveled, to say the least—his glasses were askew, his eyes wide and not even looking at the camera. Phichit and Victor wore broad smiles as the artist clutched his poodle close.

“It’s perfect!” Phichit exclaimed. “Thanks for taking a picture with your biggest fan!” he called over his shoulder as he grabbed his towel and retreated to the staff room.

Victor chuckled as he picked up his coffee. “I guess I’ll be heading ou—“

“Victor!”

He looked up, surprised to see Yuuri looking at him with a determined expression. Victor’s smile softened.

“What’s wrong, Yuuri?”

“Well…” The man seemed to lose a little confidence now that he had Victor’s attention. Suddenly, he straightened. “I… I really admire your art! I’ve always admired your art!”

Victor had heard declarations of love for his art many times on many different occasions and every time he had replied with a generic smile and thank you—yet somehow, this was a little different. It felt more… intimate. From the way Yuuri clutched the hem of his apron to his flustered expression, Victor couldn’t help but think there was a little more… genuity? sincerity? emotion?... behind this one. His heart pounded as he tried to think of something to say.

“He’s your biggest fan!” Phichit’s voice cut into his thoughts as Yuuri paled. “Look, he even took up painting because of you!”

Victor followed the line of Phichit’s sight, landing on a painting of a long-haired dancer in the midst of a spin, their hands outstretched as if to receive a gift from the gods, their flaxen hair fanning out so as to cover their face. The dancer had broad, square shoulders and a flat, muscular chest, yet every detail screamed gentility and elegance. Something was familiar about this painting… It was the way the portrait seemed to portray both genders, just like…

“… It’s inspired by your painting, _Androgyny_ ,” Yuuri murmured, his voice so low and tentative that Victor almost missed it.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Phichit called from behind the counter, phone in hand as he documented the event with glee.

Victor returned his attention to the painting. Suddenly, he was taken aback by the emotional impact. Though the dancer’s face was hidden, the body language, the color, and the attention to detail lent itself to an intense feeling of helplessness, as if the dancer were drowning in darkness and was offering up their body to the light that bathed them in hopes of salvation.

It was _excellent_.

“And the others here?” he asked, lazily walking the perimeter of the café to take in each painting.

“All Yuuri’s,” came the quick response.

Each of the paintings were so brazenly emotional. Heartbreaking, hopeful, contemplative, hesitant, longing; each picture seemed to personify a different feeling without the vibrant abstraction of Impressionist art. They weren’t without their imperfections, though; some unrefined brushwork here, a few issues with perspective there—all technical errors that could be fixed under the correct tutelage.

He turned back to look at the artist, seeing the man through a new lens.

_This is why I left Los Angeles._

Victor closed the gap between him and Yuuri, clasping both hands on the smaller man’s shoulders and shocking him into eye contact. Yuuri’s eyes met bright blue ones that were aflame with excitement and anticipation.

“Let’s go!” He grabbed Yuuri’s hand and dragged him to the door. “Tell the manager that I’m borrowing Yuuri!”

“Leave it to me!” Phichit called, snapping pictures after them.

* * *

The last place Yuuri had expected to be when he woke up that morning was in his favorite artist’s studio, arranging art supplies as the owner appraised his work. 

“You wanted the easel here?” he asked, feeling as unsteady mentally as he did physically, the sheer size of the wooden structure throwing him off-balance.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Victor clapped. “I appreciate your help; my studio’s all set up now!”

Yuuri dusted off his apron, acutely aware of how unkempt he looked compared to Victor’s effortless elegance. He had spent the night tossing and turning, replaying his first conversation with his artistic inspiration incarnate over and over again, analyzing every word, every gesture, every hint of expression that Victor had made, his mind turning each minute action into a criticism of Yuuri himself.

“So, Yuuri,” Victor began.

Yuuri felt a hand on his chin tilt him up to meet Victor’s face, their noses a scant inch apart. He could feel the words on his lips.

“Tell me everything about you… your inspirations, your dreams… your emotions… I want to know the person behind the painting.” Victor's eyes were fixed on Yuuri, seeming to take in every detail of his face.

Yuuri could feel the blood draining from his body, his legs suddenly trembling with the implications pressing down on him. He folded, falling backwards onto his rump with a startled scream. The impact with the floor shocked his mind to life and he quickly scurried away from a confused Victor. 

“I—uh—I really—I really should get back to—to work,” Yuuri stammered, his voice cracking from the sudden dryness in his throat, and before Victor could protest, Yuuri shot out the door and sprinted down the street.

The bell on the door screamed when it snapped open by Yuuri’s hands. Phichit, the picture of serenity, set down the coffee mug he was polishing and flashed Yuuri a brilliant smile.

“Yuuri, how was—“

“ _What_ were you _thinking_ , letting _Victor Nikiforov_ take me _hostage_?!” he shouted, grabbing his friend by both arms.

Phichit fished out Yuuri’s phone and handed it to him.

“Promoting our business,” the Thai man said simply.

Yuuri took his phone with trembling hands. The screen sprung to life with a flood of Instagram likes and retweets of the picture of Victor, Phichit, and himself, his painting in the background. The picture was captioned, “The art and coffee in our café is Nikiforov-approved! #thekingandthecoffee #victornikiforov #yuurikatsuki #phichitchulanont #coffee #art” and had amassed a fair amount of attention over a few social media platforms. He had known that the art community was fairly large, but he had never guessed that they would be capable of generating so much interest in such a short time.

More scrolling through his Victor Nikiforov-filled feed gave him a clear picture of his own painting. The caption read, “ _Androgyny 2.0? Japanese-American Rising Artist’s Masterful Homage to Victor Nikiforov!_ ” and linked to an article that was published just over an hour ago—while Yuuri was beginning to unpack Victor’s copious boxes of art supplies—but had already gone viral.

“The King and the Coffee, an unassuming coffee shop in the streets of Detroit, is quickly showing itself to be a magnet for all sorts of talented artists,” Yuuri read aloud, his hand shaking. “Victor Nikiforov, who was a regular back before he moved to Los Angeles, has quickly resumed his patronage at the café, which also boasts paintings by a young artist signed Y. Katsuki. One painting in particular, which yet remains untitled, is an obvious homage to Victor Nikiforov’s first famous painting, _Androgyny_. Art enthusiasts can visit this homage, which evokes all sorts of powerful emotions, at the King and the Coffee in Detroit.”

“Isn’t this great?” Phichit chirped.

Yuuri collapsed into a chair, his vision swimming. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Absolutely peachy.”

The owner, Celestino, walked in, hand raised in a greeting. “Ciao ciao! It’s about time your art got recognized. Keep bringing in good business for us, okay, Yuuri? Don’t worry about leaving with Victor, you’ve more than made up for it with this publicity.”

Yuuri swayed on his feet, his vision blurring. “I need to sit down,” he moaned, melting into a chair that Phichit pulled out for him.

His phone sprung to life once more with an incoming call. “It’s Minako,” he said to no one in particular. “Hello? Minako?”

“That painting! I told you it was gorgeous!” his former art teacher practically screeched through the phone. “I’m so proud of you! I’ve been taking care of offers for it, like you asked, and people want to buy it now! Your other paintings, too!”

Yuuri pressed a hand to his lips, his eyes wide. He was barely aware of Minako chattering away on the line, much less the quiet jingle of the bell as Victor walked in once more.

A warm hand pressed into his shoulder and a warm breath washed over his ear. “See, Yuuri? Your artwork is beautiful. Everyone thinks so,” Victor hummed.

He wasn’t quite sure what it was. Maybe it was the praise from his idol, or the fact that he would be able to sell his paintings to help pay his student loans, or the monumental response to his creations, but the reality spilled through his eyes in the form of tears. 

Saying nothing, Victor simply clasped both of his shoulders with warm, steady hands as Yuuri’s body shook with the force of his sobs. Victor shuffled, completely out of his element. He never knew how to comfort anyone. He walked to the counter and came back with a pile of napkins for Yuuri to wipe his face. Phichit and Celestino began closing up shop for the night, taking care to give Yuuri his space.

Feeling somewhat responsible for the emotional breakdown, Victor had offered to walk Yuuri home. He had anticipated a reaction to Phichit’s post, but the response was far more powerful than he had guessed. It would have been overwhelming for anyone, really.

He took care to match Yuuri’s strides, slowing when he did and allowing him the space to turn if he needed. He brushed silver hair out of his eyes and sighed happily. Did Yuuri feel the same?

A stolen glance turned into two, and two turned into a long gaze when he realized Yuuri wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his brown eyes were fixed on the rising moon, warm with… something. Victor wondered what he was thinking.

Yuuri slowed to a stop in front of a run-down apartment complex, fishing out his keys from his pocket. Victor shoved his hands in his pockets and opened his mouth to say goodbye but stopped when Yuuri turned to face him.

“Umm… Victor?”

“Yes, Yuuri?”

He watched as the young artist fidgeted, fingering his key nervously and shuffling from side to side.

“My painting… was it… was it really that good?”

Victor sighed. “It really was,” he smiled.

Yuuri looked up, hope reflected in his warm brown eyes. The hope melted into relief and he rubbed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said. “It really means a lot.”

“Yuuri.”

Victor took a step forward, extending his hand towards Yuuri. The young artist looked first at the outstretched hand, then at the face of the owner.

“I’ve been searching for someone like you,” Victor found himself saying, surprised at how deeply it rang true. “I want to make you famous.”

Victor found he quite liked the way Yuuri’s eyes widened and the way his cheeks flushed. Emboldened, he extended his hand further, turning his palm up.

“Will you paint in my studio?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a long time since I've written fanfiction, much less posted something for the public's viewing pleasure. You can call me Sora :-) You can find me on tumblr as @soraryuuzaki.
> 
> Anyway, I am in love with these gay ice skaters and suddenly had the burning desire to write for them. I wanted it to be one quick fic, but they had a mind of their own and before I knew it I was 4k words in. I hope you guys enjoy this and y'all are in for an inconsistent af ride 'cause I have no idea how to write on a schedule l m f a o


	2. Pandemonium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to finish this in time for Victor's birthday and it is currently 11:50 PM on December 25 so I MADE IT!!!!!!
> 
> if there's any spelling / grammar errors or if it just plain does not make sense, it's 'cause i didn't actually go back and edit since i was trying to beat the midnight deadline

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the mirror, Yuuri pinched himself for the umpteenth time that night, and for the umpteenth time that night, he came to the conclusion that he wasn’t dreaming.

He flopped onto the floor with a harrumph, reaching for his phone and scrolling through social media. It had barely been 12 hours since that picture had gone viral, but it felt like an eternity to Yuuri.

He came across a side-by-side comparison of Victor’s _Androgyny_ and his own painting. He supposed he would have to come up with a title for it soon given its sudden rise in popularity, but he didn’t quite know what to call it. He supposed _Androgyny 2.0_ suited it well enough.

For once, Yuuri was able to appreciate the differences between his painting and Victor’s. After he had first discovered _Androgyny_ , his mind was consumed with the idea of representing both genders and yet neither at once. He began imagining scenes of his own, sketching it whenever he could, erasing and retracing and starting all over again when it didn’t come out right. He learned to move on, painted generic things like cornucopias and sunsets while keeping tabs on the next Nikiforov art gallery, but kept the idea tucked away in the corner of his mind.

When news had broken that Victor left Detroit for Los Angeles, the idea shoved its way to the front of the line and it consumed him once more, refusing to let his attention span go until he finished the painting.

He had been proud at first. He had regarded it one of his best works and submitted it for consideration in a gallery, only to be turned down because _Androgyny_ was still on display and the curator refused to have “a cheap attempt at recreating the style of Nikiforov’s paintings”.

When he had looked at it again, he felt his stomach hollow. He knew it was different—he was the artist; how could he not?—and yet the curator’s words cut deep into the heart of his insecurity. He had tucked the painting away in a corner of the apartment, ready to throw it out, until Phichit had found it and begged Celestino to display it in The King and the Coffee.

Yuuri hadn’t had the heart to look at it since. Despite the piece being in his place of employment, he had willfully restricted himself from looking at it in order to avoid the feeling of guilt and inadequacy that bubbled like bile in the back of his throat.

Since then, he had stuck mostly to sketching. He was content with the sketches, allowing himself to feel the slightest hints of pride whenever he finished a particularly complex one, yet hesitant to put brush to canvas. Whenever he tried, he could already hear criticisms in his mind ( _Another ballet dancer? That’s been so overdone. Can’t you come up with something original?_ ) and immediately put down the brush.

And yet…

Victor Nikiforov, his inspiration, his role model wanted _him_ to paint in the same studio! Yuuri pressed his free cold hand, against his cheeks, hoping to take the color out of them. The studio was large enough for two people, certainly, but Victor didn’t seem to need to split the rent. _The man is famous, after all,_ Yuuri thought to himself, tapping his temple with his finger thoughtfully.

Yuuri had told the artist that he would need a little time to think about it. Victor had flashed him a winning smile and told him it was no problem.

Yuuri sighed, looking at the two paintings side-by-side. It was easy to appreciate the differences now, the first being the tone of the painting; _Androgyny_ elicited a sense of pain and loss, whereas Yuuri’s evoked a feeling of hope amidst despair. He had spent a good amount of his life wondering what had prompted Victor to paint such a powerful piece. He could only glean so much from interviews and features and news articles, and whatever he could get was cryptic at best. Now that he had met the artist, he had even more questions.

He had to admit that having a studio to paint in sounded like a wonderful idea. The last time he had a dedicated painting space was when he was still living with his parents two years ago. His parents, who owned a small bed and breakfast in the suburbs, converted one of their unused rooms into a studio for him. After Yuuri had moved out, he found that making time to paint—at that time, he was still working on _Androgyny 2.0_ —extremely difficult, as setup and breakdown was exhausting. Once he finished the painting, he had put away his supplies and hadn’t touched them since (he liked to say that it was because it was he didn’t have the space or time for it, but he knew it was something else; something deeper).

A series of knocks startled Yuuri out of his reverie.

“Come in,” he said, sitting up and fixing his glasses.

Phichit stuck his head in with a little wave and a smile before opening the door and sitting down in front of Yuuri.

“So?!”

“So what?”

“So what happened with Victor?”

Yuuri rolled his eyes as he sat up. “Nothing really. I helped him unpack boxes in his studio, and that’s about it.”

“Is that really it?” Phichit crossed his arms with a huff.

Yuuri shuffled anxiously in his friend’s gaze. “Y-yeah.”

Phichit sighed. “Yuuri, I’m disappointed in you. I ran into Victor on my way home, you know.” Yuuri bristled immediately. He hadn’t expected Victor and Phichit to talk about it. “I know he asked you to paint in his studio. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”

“I don’t know. I just… I was embarrassed. I don’t even know how I feel about it. I mean, what does he even want from me? Why is he offering me this?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It does sound pretty sketchy.” His roommate nodded thoughtfully. “But you know, it would be a waste of an opportunity to turn this down. You’ve got one of the world’s greatest artists right here, offering you a chance to learn under him! Imagine how much you’ll learn!”

“Yeah, or how hard I’ll fail,” Yuuri spat before he could catch himself. It was only when he caught Phichit’s crestfallen look that he realized what he said.

“You won’t fail, Yuuri,” Phichit said matter-of-factly. “You’re so talented. So what if that one gallery turned you down? It’s one gallery. Look how popular that piece is now! And tons of artists get their work turned down the first time, anyway!”

A nagging feeling pulled at him. He understood what Phichit was saying—truly, he did—but he still felt unsure. Not knowing how to respond, Yuuri suddenly found the hem of his pants extremely intriguing.

“I really think you should do it, Yuuri.” Yuuri met Phichit’s eyes, warm with confidence and conviction. “If not for yourself, then at least because I want to say I have a friend who studied with _the_ Victor Nikiforov.”

Yuuri smiled. “Thanks.”

“And then!” Phichit exclaimed, throwing himself into Yuuri’s lap and rolling around. “You can _finally_ paint me that portrait of my hamsters and me that I’ve been asking you about for years!”

\-----

As Victor slipped on his shoes, he felt hesitation nipping at the back of his mind like a bird at a feeder. Had he been too straightforward with Yuuri yesterday? He had been quite forward in asking, but he’d never really had a pupil before so he wasn’t quite sure how to ask about things like that in the first place.

Makkachin whined and nudged at his leg.

“You’re right, Makkachin.” Victor patted his poodle’s head affectionately. “I can’t worry about that now; I just need to know what he says, and then I can worry.”

Victor stopped at the door to double check the supplies in his bags, and when he was satisfied, the two set off towards The King and the Skater.

As Victor approached the shop, Makkachin trotting along beside him, he noticed the unusually long line pouring out the door. He tightened the scarf around his neck, figuring he’d be outside for quite some time so he should best stay warm.

Victor couldn’t help but grin when he saw a familiar apron-clad Japanese man stumble out the door and speak frantically to a few of the people in line. Now that he was closer, Victor could see cameras and microphones, and upon eye contact with one of the patrons, all hell broke loose.

“Victor! May I speak with you for a second!”

“Mr. Nikiforov! A word, please?”

“How did you come across this coffee shop?”

“May I have a picture?”

Makkachin whined as the mob forced itself onto Victor, leaving his master’s side in favor of Yuuri’s, who was just out of reach of the reporters and fans. Victor smiled patiently as he answered each question with grace. He supposed this was what Yuuri was outside trying to stop.

“All right, all right; that’s enough,” Celestino’s voice boomed over the clamor. “If you are not here to purchase something from my café, I must ask you to leave before I call the police for accounts of loitering. Mr. Nikiforov here would like his morning coffee, I’m sure,” he added with a wink as Yuuri and Makkachin emerged from the shop.

As the crowd cleared, Yuuri handed Victor a cup of coffee, warm and inviting. The smell of coffee wrapped around him like a blanket, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the coffee itself or from Yuuri.

“A hazelnut coffee, three sugars and one cream,” the Japanese man murmured as the cup transferred from Yuuri’s bare hands to Victor’s gloved ones. “On the house.”

“Thank you, Yuuri.”

Makkachin barked.

“And you, too, Makkachin,” Victor said proudly, patting his poodle’s head. As he took his first sip of coffee, he noticed Yuuri retreating to the door of the coffee shop. “Yuuri!” He trotted after the Japanese man, holding the door open behind him. “Have you thought about my offer?”

All of the heads in the coffee shop suddenly turned at the word “offer”, cameras and microphones in hand. Yuuri froze in his tracks, seemingly terrified, while Victor’s reaction could be best described as mildly confused. Then, as if reacting to an invisible cue, the reporters who had staked out the coffee shop in hopes of a scoop leapt to their feet at once.

“Mr. Nikiforov! Could you clarify that statement?”

“What offer did you make?”

“Will you be selling your art exclusively to The King and the Skater?”

Thankful that the reporters had decided to ignore him, Yuuri slipped out towards the back but was caught by a single reporter who had opted to follow the unknown rather than be drowned in the sea of journalists after Victor.

“Excuse me! My name is Morooka,” he began when he had successfully cut Yuuri off from his exit. “Could I ask you a few questions?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, sure,” Yuuri said.

“Who are you? And what do you do?”

He was taken aback by Morooka’s forwardness, although Yuuri supposed it was in a reporter’s best interest to cut to the chase when interviewing someone. “I, uh, I’m Yuuri Katsuki. I’m a barista here at the King and the Skater.”

“Yuuri… Katsuki…” Morooka repeated, scribbling down the name as he held his recorder underneath his notepad. He tapped his chin with his pencil thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be related to the Y. Katsuki who painted the artwork here, would you?”

“Oh! Ah, um… well…” Yuuri stumbled over his words, his brain running a mile a minute trying to decide how to respond. If he said yes, then the press might start going after him; if he said no, then he’d be lying and that would just be rude—

“Why, yes, the artist of these paintings is right over there!”

Victor’s voice cut clear above the pandemonium of reporters as he directed their attention to Yuuri, who quite frankly felt like a deer in the middle of a terrifying death circle of headlights.

The white-haired man waded through the pool of people to hook his hand around Yuuri’s waist and pull him closer. “This is Yuuri Katsuki, the artist of all the paintings here in the King and the Skater,” he announced proudly, oblivious to Yuuri’s panicked expression and tense muscles. “I’ve extended an offer to him to join my studio and study under me for a while, but he hasn’t quite come to a decision yet.”

The pandemonium re-erupted in full force, reporters clamoring to get closer to the two while Morooka clung onto Yuuri with his recorder out, trying to shout his questions over the cacophony of questions. Yuuri could feel his soul slowly leaving his body every time a journalist shouted his name.

“Attention, patrons of The King and the Skater! This is the Detroit Police,” an amplified voice called from outside. “We have received complaints regarding loitering and disturbance of the peace.”

\-----

Yuuri all but melted onto the last coffee table that he had to clean, the last traces of the paparazzi apocalypse finally behind him. All of the trash and overturned furniture had finally been rearranged, though it had taken him the better half of his shift to do so.

He sighed, pulling out his phone and scrolling through Phichit’s many Instagram pictures from the day. “Must have been nice, not having to come in today. I wanted to go to Belle Isle, too.”

“Do you want to go? Let’s go, Yuuri!” Victor latched onto Yuuri’s back. Makkachin followed by plopping his head onto Yuuri’s lap. “We can talk about you studying under me while we’re there, and maybe do a bit of sketching, too!”

Lacking the energy to do anything else, Yuuri simply groaned.

“Hey, Yuuri, why do you look so tired? Yuuri!”

Not for the first time today, the Japanese man cursed Victor for his abundance of energy and lack of obligation to help clean.

“Yuuri,” Victor said, his voice dropping in energy, “do you want to go? To Belle Isle.”

“Isn’t it too late to go? It’s already 5, and it’s dark outside.”

“It might be pretty in the dark.”

“Don’t you have anything you need to take care of, Victor? You’ve been here all day.”

The Russian man laughed. “No, not at all. I haven’t taken on any projects; I wanted to spend my first couple of weeks back in Detroit re-exploring the city.”

Yuuri groaned. No wonder Victor had spent the entire afternoon in the shop.

Celestino poked his head out from the storage room. “Yuuri, your shift’s over. Good work today!”

The Japanese man shot up, injected with the serum of life. “Yes! I’ll see you on Monday. Thanks!” he called after his boss as he pulled off his apron and gathered his belongings from behind the counter.

As Yuuri left the shop, Victor and Makkachin followed on his heels.

“Yuuri! Want to come sketch at my studio?”

Before he could respond, Yuuri’s stomach decided to answer for him.

Embarrassed, he covered his stomach and tried to stutter an apology, but Victor waved him off. “I forgot, you’ve been working all day. You must be hungry.” He grabbed Yuuri’s wrist and led him away. “Come! Let’s go get something to eat, first.”

\-----

After much prodding, Victor was finally able to pay for the meal himself. Yuuri had insisted on splitting the bill, but Victor had persisted.

“You work part time at a coffee shop. I don’t think you’ve got much of an expendable income, so let me take care of it. At least this one time?”

Yuuri acquiesced with a shy nod and had excused himself to the restroom while Victor took care of the bill.

As he signed off on the tip and final purchase amount, Victor found himself humming happily. The conversation over dinner had been almost effortless, though he wondered if it had been because he was so energetic that he had just carried the conversation himself. He hoped that Yuuri had enjoyed the conversation too—but if laughter was anything to go by, they’d certainly enjoyed it quite a bit.

Makkachin popped his head out from underneath the table, where he had been napping for the duration of the meal as Yuuri came back, pulling nervously at the ends of his sleeves. “Are you really sure about this? I can pay you back.”

“Nonsense,” Victor waved. He stood up and gestured towards the door. “Shall we leave?”

Yuuri smiled and opened the door, letting Makkachin lead the way out first. “Yes, we shall.”

Victor fished the keys to his studio out and opened the door with a content sigh. “Here we are, home sweet studio.”

Makkachin trotted over to the pet bed off to the side and nestled himself in the cushion as Victor pulled up two easels and chairs, placing sketch pads on both. He motioned at Yuuri to sit down next to one.

“Ah—I’m not—uhh—I’m not too sure,” Yuuri began as Victor dragged him towards the seat when it became apparent that Yuuri wasn’t going to do so on his own. “I don’t have anything to paint with—”

“You’re welcome to use anything in my studio,” Victor said easily. “You already know where everything is since you helped me move in, so it’s just a matter of whether or not you want to do anything.”

The Japanese man studied his expression carefully. Victor could feel something stirring inside him—he found he quite liked the way that Yuuri’s brown eyes searched his; the longer Yuuri stared, the more Victor wanted him to stare.

“I… I don’t even know what I’d sketch,” Yuuri said finally, breaking eye contact. Victor released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He smiled and sat down next to Yuuri, pulling out a piece of charcoal to start sketching on his own piece of paper.

“Then tell me about that painting of yours. What inspired you to paint that?”

Yuuri turned away from Victor, but the Russian man continued to sketch regardless, looking occasionally back at Yuuri for reference. For another few moments, a silence settled between them, punctuated only by the sound of the charcoal scratching on paper.

“It was… It was the first time I saw _Androgyny_.”

Startled by first the disruption of silence and then by the words themselves, Victor almost stopped sketching. He realized, though, that Yuuri was tense and forced himself to continue sketching—if only to make him feel like it wasn’t embarrassing to talk about himself like this.

“I… It really struck me. It was the first piece I saw that made me really think. I couldn’t get it out of my head for weeks. The way it was framed, everything about it… It felt as if… As if I were murdering the subject’s freedom by cutting their hair.”

Victor willed himself to continue sketching.

“I started painting after that, if only to contain my own anxiety about the world. I drew anything that came into my head; I put my greatest fears on paper not in words but in pictures. It… helped me a lot.”

Victor finally allowed himself to put down his charcoal and look at Yuuri. The Japanese man was looking down at his hands, folded tightly in his lap; his eyes and lips gave hints of a soft smile. Victor felt his breath quicken; Yuuri looked so _vulnerable_.

“Your painting inspired me, Victor.”

When Victor realized those honey brown eyes were trained on him, he almost forgot to breathe.

Yuuri smiled and looked away, though Victor could see that the tips of ears had turned a bright red. “My painting… it was a… I…” He struggled with the words for a few moments. “I wanted to express how I felt. About _Androgyny_. I wanted to… to save the subject. I wanted to show them that they were loved, and that I wanted to protect them. Because that’s how I felt when I first saw it… Is that weird?”

Yuuri laughed and turned to Victor.

“V-Victor?! Why are you crying?”

 He raised a hand to his cheek. “Oh… I am, aren’t I?” he chuckled, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm. “That’s embarrassing.”

As if on cue, Makkachin ran over to nuzzle Victor’s thigh. He scooped down and hugged his dog, heaving a shaky sigh into the curly fur. 

“Victor…?”

The Russian man shook his head as if to tell Yuuri it wasn’t his fault. “That painting… _Androgyny_ … was a painting about my own life.” He looked up at Yuuri, a soft sparkle in his blue eyes. “So thank you for saying those things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're emotionally destroyed from episode 12, clap your hands~
> 
> *CLAPS FURIOUSLY*
> 
> come hang out with me on tumblr! my url is soraryuuzaki.tumblr.com


End file.
